When Frank Rich signed off from the New York Times in March, he invoked a metaphor often used by the late William Safire to describe the rhythm of a weekly columnist. To Safire, column writing was like "standing under a windmill: No sooner did you feel relief that you had ducked a blade than you looked up and saw a new one coming down." So, too, was it for Rich, who stepped down from his unparalleled position in part because he no longer enjoyed the "relentless production" it entailed. So, too, has it been for me.
I'm not Frank Rich, nor am I Safire, nor am I even convinced that more than eight people have ever read this column. But no matter who you are, no matter what you write about or how many people you reach, when you decide to write a weekly column, you place yourself under that windmill. You accept a new rhythm — even, in some ways, a new metabolism. The week becomes your cardinal unit of time.
For two and a half years — not a long time, but the world of college journalism goes by dog years — I've structured some part of my life around a Monday night deadline and a collection of idiosyncratic emotions. I've felt the comforting, mashed-potatoes-and-gravy joy of finding something to write. Sometimes, I've felt the much spicier thrill of being seized by something better. Far too often, I've felt the sinking emptyhandedness of having no topic and no energy when the deadline rolls around. On rare occasion, those deadlocks have led to minor punch-drunk epiphanies.
It does get tiring. It does sometimes prevent you from experiencing things to the fullest, since you're all-too-fixated on what you're going to say next week. It does, as Rich noted, make you sick of your own voice — especially if your main beat is arts criticism, which involves a lot of singing and little straight-talk.
But you know what? At the end of the day, I couldn't have asked for a better writing gig. I've gotten to write exactly what I've wanted, in exactly the form I've wanted, for an audience I've always cared about. I've had a real, honest-to-God open platform, and even if one could argue that anyone can have that in the digital age, there's nothing quite like the gift, and the responsibility, of having an open platform in print. Like vinyl, it's a medium with an unduplicatable bodiliness. There's something quietly wonderful about the idea that your weekly dispatch could end up as birdcage lining.
To the reader: Thank you for reading. This column got its name when I realized, very early on, that I'd inevitably end up spouting off pseudo-intellectual jibber-jabber. If there's been too much, I apologize. If there's been too little ... man, just go read N+1.
To the WSN editors, past and present: Thank you for putting up with me and for being, collectively, the most generous and tireless people I've ever met.
To Rachel Smith: Thank you, thank you, for giving me this opportunity in the first place.
To the cast and crew of the unreleased 2009 film "Midgets vs. Mascots": Your film, specifically the part with all the midgets and mascots puking in succession, was pretty much the worst thing I have ever seen. With that said....
To everyone: Be receptive to art, in all its forms. Be willing to love something for its ideas. Be occasionally ridiculous.
